


Let the Wolf In

by Ariasune



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Brutal Murder, Child Abuse, Rape, Sexual Abuse, Survival Sex Work, Underage Sex, Underage Sexwork, Violence, survival sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 13:36:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3449111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariasune/pseuds/Ariasune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The oldest profession is either thieving, or whoring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let the Wolf In

**Author's Note:**

> Please see end of piece for further information.

He's one whisk of breath away from dying, and he feels nothing thinking about it. It's been almost a season since the insides of his skull were lathered crimson with memories, and they clot out every feeling save the hunger. It's barely a feeling, but it's there; he closes his eyes, and the backs of his eyelids are  _red,_ and his heart is hungry in his chest.

But he doesn't feel hunger on the inside, he feels it on the outside. Under Bakura’s searching fingers, he feels his ribs as they press into his skin. Wraps a hand around first one bony wrist and then the other. Feels his ankles shake as he walks. He is a bag of bones, rattling with each step. His pulse is a begging noise in his body, asking him to live with a thrum that echoes through his spine. He’s not sure what to say to it.

Still, he’s not interested in satisfying fate, and if there’s anything to fate, he should have died with the rest. So he follows the smell of food, the burn of hunger in his throat, flexing his fingers and hoping he’ll be a bit quicker this time.

He eventually finds the source, and it’s a house, building even; open-doored and silent. There’s fresh bread, the smell curving richly in the air, and he hovers by the doorway for a moment. But only a moment.

Quietly, he edges about the wall, eyes feverish bright and fixed on the bread. It smells hot, crisp, golden and grainy, full of flashing flavour. He continues to step cautiously forward, still hugging the wall, hands stretching out. He can just about taste it-

“Got my eye on you,” He’s told, twitching at the voice behind him. Gingerly, he looks round to stare up at the man looming over him, “Get out of here, boy.”

“I’m just looking,” Bakura whines, and the man bats at him with a heavy fist. He dodges it in a half-skip, ducks off to the side, cowering like a dog.

The man follows after him, herding him towards the door, “Look elsewhere, kid, you’ve got straying eyes.”

“I’m hungry,” He tries, his mouth gaping wet and red. The man’s eyes wander over him stickily.

“You got anything to pay for it?” He has nothing. Everything he owns is blood-soaked and boiled down and hanging at the Living God’s neck. “Didn’t think so,” The man clicks his tongue and waves his hands, “Be off with you.”

Bakura’s backed into the doorway, and sticks both hands out to catch on the doorframe, “I’ll- I can work,” The man advances on him, and he skitters, but holds his ground.

“Don’t need no work, urchin,” The man shoves him by the shoulders, throwing him outside and he squalls as he falls.

His heart wails, and before he knows he’s opened his mouth, he calls back, hotly, pleading, “I’ll suck your cock!”

There’s a telling silence, and he scrabbles to his feet, pulse thumping in his chest. With that, the man steps aside and cautiously, Bakura slips back into the room. The air is still thick with the scent of bread, and he cocks his head at it. Entire face flaring - eyes wide, sniffing the air, saliva welling dryly in his mouth.

“This way boy,” The man is gruff, gesturing to another room that is blocked off by a tattered length of cloth, “What’re you looking at?”

“I wanna be paid now,” His eyes flash at the man, who only laughs at him. He scowls as deeply as he can, but is shoved into the other room as the man still laughs, “I said pay me-”

“I heard you,” The man is gruff, tugging him by the upper arm, and the man’s eagerness has Bakura’s stomach burning nervously, “I’m not paying a whore before the work is done.”

“I-” Bakura clamps his mouth shut, eyes blazing. The word whore rattles around his skull, but it’s true and that knowledge leaves a grimy feeling in his throat, “Alright,” The fire in his eyes is finally doused out when the man runs a finger by the corner of his mouth. It catches on his lips, scratches and tugs as it passes by. 

“Such a small mouth for something so loud,” Bakura shivers, violently, and the curious fingertip withdraws, “Think my cock’ll fit, ah?” The man sounds genuinely fascinated.

“Of course it fucking will,” He snarls, dropping to his knees, nerves scattering. He has no idea how to begin, and he knows it must be showing. When he glances through his eyelashes at the man, he can see an odd expression on the man’s face, and Bakura squeezes his eyes shut, eyebrows furrowing.

It happens- Bakura isn’t sure how exactly, his mind gumming at the memory, but the man’s shendyt ends up peeled over his hips and Bakura ends up crouched between his legs. He gags, coughing as he lowers his head, and is already questioning his bold statement about what may or may not fit in his mouth, when he hears a click behind his teeth.

From there it lasts an age, with his jaw popped open, lips stretched painfully, knees aching, and back stinging from curling over. Everything is uncomfortable, to the point of agony and he whimpers, unsure how long it’s been, but that it’s been an age, with his tongue rubbing up against the fleshy thing in his mouth. He grimaces in a disrupted show of teeth, a whine at the back of his throat.

His arms are numb, eyes watering when the man pries him off, expression still strange, “You have no idea what you’re doing, do you,” It’s not a question and Bakura thumps back on the ground.

The man stands, smoothing down his shendyt and still looking down at him. For only a moment. Then he leaves the room with a swish of the fabric curtain, and suddenly Bakura’s heart is in his throat, crawling up into his dry mouth. He’s not going to be paid; he tried, and it was so bad, he’s not going to be paid. He’s scrambling up, giving a sharp cry of displeasure, when the man reappears, ducking under the curtain.

“Here,” He’s given an earthen cup that sloshes with the movement. Peering into it, he can smell beer, and so he pours it back into his throat without thinking. It hits his stomach unexpectedly, and he groans.

The cup is pulled from his hands, and Bakura licks his already dry lips, "Thanks," He stutters.

The man sighs, giving him a hunk of bread bigger than his fist, “Get out of here kid,” He needs no further orders, before darting under the curtain and out into the street, clinging to his bread like he’s stolen it. It’s only when he’s sure he’s going to get away that he hears the man call after him, “Don’t let me catch you here again!”

Bakura rounds a corner, and hunkers down in the shade of the wall, gnawing on the bread slowly. His gut is still aching with the beer in , and he can feel himself trembling. Licking at the bread, he lets it soften, soaking in his saliva before chewing off another strip. He eats carefully, thoughtfully as he stops shaking.

He’s not going to do that again, he decides, but then amends it: he’s not going to do that for at least a month. It was humiliating, and worse, he was so bad he’s eating pity payment. He can’t bear to imagine doing it again, and though he knows better than to expect he won’t, he can at least avoid it. So, he won’t be doing that again for _at least_ a month.

* * *

He’s back on his knees a few days later. This time they’re in the dark of the sheltering buildings, and the man is – although just as dissatisfied by Bakura, as the last one – grabbing him tightly by the hair. It’s strange, but the hard, violent yanks on his head are worse than any other part of it. The man shudders, pulling Bakura close enough that he can feel hair scratching at his nose and is spluttering on the man’s cock. He struggles, hands catching on the man’s thighs as he tries to push away, but something runs elegantly down the back of his throat, and he goes limp. He makes no bid to swallow, but the cock is so far back in his mouth, it doesn’t change anything.

He’s released, panting, reeling weakly, as he takes heavy gulps of air. Bakura realizes between deep, coughing breaths that he has been left crouching in the dirt. Alone. Unpaid. It is the first time he’s been robbed, and he’s oddly outraged by it. He struggles to his feet, but collapses after barely one step.

It’s strange to be robbed – he didn’t think he had anything valuable left. He didn’t have anything but the skin on his back, and it feels faintly like that has been stolen. As though he’s been skinned alive.

He spits out a mouthful of saliva, aware of the waste, but uncaring, as his palm catches on the side of the building and he gets to his feet again.

“Shit,” He grumbles to himself, scraping his tongue against his teeth. Something hard catches in Bakura’s throat, and he tries to spit again, slobbering dryly at the sour taste. Hiccoughing, he can feel tears splash up, bubbling at the corner of his eyes. It feels hot and shameful, and Bakura cups his face in his hands, sobbing shakily into his palms.

He doesn’t want to be alive; he doesn’t want to die; he doesn’t know what to do.

He eats insects that night, scrubs the tears from his face and tries again. Lingering outside a tavern, he blinks brightly at the men who come out, smile sticky on his face.

“Deben?” He asks at first, but an hour later, his smile is stickier, and the words he’s struggling out are explicit. Raw on his tongue. Dirty and rough and painful. He asks a man with smooth hands if they want to fuck his mouth, grab him by the throat and jerk off behind his teeth. When the man says yes, there is such an ugly relief swimming in him. He doesn't even feel sick, just ashamed as he crouches in the dirt.

It’s over quickly, Bakura’s knees scratched, and a skinny pouch of gold in his hands. There’s the stink coming up from his mouth, and he clots it out between bites of bread. This time, he can’t spare the spit.

It’s not that he’s grown up too fast, but that he’s grown up too slow for what’s happening to him. He was the son of tomb-builders, and when there were no dead to bury, he was the son of thieves, and with so much dead to bury, he’s nothing but a skin-seller. As though it is being torn and flayed from his bones, and when he clutches at his arms in the sweating dark of the town, he can feel each bone press eagerly into his palms.

* * *

He's been doing well for at least a month, perhaps not comfortably. There is nothing comfortable about hunger, but with his belly rounded between his hips, the deep gullet hole between his ribs is screaming at him. He is not so close to death, and he can feel again, all at once and then little by little. The first wave of hot pain that comes howling from him sounds like someone jabbed a jackal in the throat, and it is gurgling blood, and he's yowling helplessly. The second wave is slow; an anger that sets in slowly. It feels poisonous, cold sometimes, like his blood is being turned into oil.

It sparks one day; a well-fed guard who Bakura recognizes.

His heartbeat is somewhere in his head, his heart is in his throat and he's chewing on his own hatred. He doesn't think about it, but lets himself feel it when he snatches up a rock, and beats the man's nose into his skull. Bones crunch wetly under him, but otherwise it's silent, and he doesn't stop - can't stop - until he hears footsteps over the snarl of his own pulse.

* * *

A good month turns into a bad one, as though the cost of living has raised the rent. Began to ask what Bakura cannot give. So, teeth showing, anger stamping in his chest, he slinks through a crowd, tilting his gaze at the men. Shows off the slip of his skinny legs, and curve of his waist. It takes a lot to remember that it is not him who is being bought; it is time. Certainly not his skill - he has none, and when he automatically makes to clamp his mouth, the stocky man standing over him clips him across the nose.

There is a spurt of blood, and he clutches at his face, "What the hell," He growls thickly, tongue sluggish in his mouth.

"You'll bite it off, you little viper," The man glares down at him, his eyes twin pits in his skull. Bakura glares hatefully back at him, and rubs the back of his hand over his jaw, smearing blood across his cheek.

"I wasn't going to," He states bluntly, still scrubbing at his injured nose, "You grabbed my hair."

"You almost chewed my cock off."

"Don't grab my fucking hair, then."

The man stares at him critically, nose wrinkling as he takes in Bakura's skinny legs, the bony cut of his waist, his toothy mouth. His lip curls, and the man twines his fingers deeply in Bakura's hair. Yank Bakura forward until his hands splay out, catch on the man's thighs to balance himself, "Don't fucking-"

"You should charge less for that foul mouth of yours."

It's like being slapped a second time, and Bakura shoves the man away from him. Tugs against the hold in his hair. Pulling himself to his feet, Bakura brushes dirt off his knees and leaves drying spots of blood against his skin, "Fine," He hisses, "I'll take my foul tongue somewhere else," He's too angry to want this man's cock rubbing against the roof of his mouth, and it spills into his tone.

"I bought you," The man follows him, and Bakura's step stammers into a trot.

"Don't pay a whore before the work is done, and don't grab my hair," He bares his teeth at the man, the words sizzling in his mouth. There is a little knife tucked in his fingers. Its blade is short, and would barely reach his wrist, but it is easy to jam between bones, good in a close and personal conflict. It shows in the light, and the man barely looks at it. Bakura snorts, and backs away, gathers the wall behind him protectively. The man watches the movements, follows the line of Bakura's thigh, and stops his approach. Holds both hands ahead of him.

Bakura has almost slunk away, when the man speaks again, "How much is a real fuck?"

Tilting his head at the man, Bakura's lips thin, "Real," It's not a question; it's disdainful. Clearly this man has never had anything in his mouth he didn't want; the distinction he has just made is the privilege of a paying customer. He rubs a forearm across his nose, leaves his face a mottled red, "A kite of silver," It's an unreasonable amount to pay, and Bakura gives a knowing smirk.

"Alright."

He pauses again, studies the handful of silver and gold rings on the man's fingers. One of them had caught in his hair, pulled painfully earlier, and he can see flyaway hairs that were torn out.

"And one of your rings. No," He licks his teeth, "Two of your rings."

"Only the gold. Not the silver," The man answers, and Bakura nodded tersely, "And you can have a bracelet too, greedy brat," The insult is tempered with an affection that turns Bakura's organs inside-out, leaves a wary nausea in him, "But I'll pay you afterwards."

"You'll pay me now," Bakura declares, almost dizzy with power when the man considers it.

"I'll pay you when the work is done."

"No," Bakura shakes his head, breath rattling. There is a quickness in his blood, and it bleeds through and over his anxiety. He stares the man down, tilting his head up with a cockiness he feels all too much, "Now."

The man's face pinches, tongue clicking in his mouth. Curiously, Bakura watches the flicker of apprehension over the man's face. Sees the desire flare up, turn reckless, "Deal."

"And you can't pull my hair."

"Fine," The man agrees slowly, but surely, and Bakura beams brightly, teeth showing in a jagged gleam. He draws himself up, straining for all three feet and a half that he has to offer.

The gravity of his mistake hasn't reached Bakura yet, hasn't pulled him down, and so he stands proudly when the man reaches for him. When hands hook on his shoulders, fingernails pricking at his skin, Bakura startles for a moment, eyes a delicate colour in the midlight.

Bakura bares the knife at the man, who hands him a fistful of debens. Pries the rings from his fingers. Slides the gold bracelet off his thick wrist. All of this is dropped into Bakura's hands with a ceremonial air. He stares at it blankly, mouth a hungry circle of surprise; it is more wealth than he'd held before, and he falters it. It drops with a crack and he stares down at the pile between his ankles.

"I-" He looks up at the man.

Regret pools on Bakura's tongue, as the man twists him round by the shoulders. Pushes him forward, and down. The floor is hard, and Bakura's skin is softer than he thinks; it tears as he's pushed down to meet it. Knees scraping, Bakura stifles a growl, and swears his entire skeleton is shaking.

His shendyt is hitched up, and one hand is pressing down at the back of his neck, shoving him into the dirt. The other hand scrapes inside him, scratching and chafing finger by finger. It burns, but it only burns a little. He's seen fire lick his sister's bones, guzzle the flesh from her. He's seen his father melt. His mother ablaze. It burns, but it only burns a little.

Shifting behind him, the man's stomach slaps against Bakura's lower back, and he shudders into the dirt. Claws into the ground, carefully bracing himself. It burns a little more, but he buries it in his lungs along with every other jackal-scream and whine he has.

"You're quiet," He's told, breath sweating on the back of his neck.  
His pride hurts now; as though the man is attempting to flay him, split him open at the seams, pick open the stitches that keep his chest together.

"I bought your ass so I could hear that dirty mouth _scream_."

A hand twists in his hair, the other hand wraps around his throat, thumb stroking along the line of his neck, and the sudden sharp thrusts are meant to coax a howl from his lips. The thumb pressed its pad against the Bakura's pulse, smudges it. His emotions muddy, clutter. There's a hand squeezing the breath from him, but he feels nothing thinking about it. The inside of his skull is painted red, and this is _pale, pale, pale_ in his nerves.

Finally, he makes a sound - a wrenching, heechy-keechy laugh - he all but swallows a mouthful of dust, and above him the man's anger thickens. 

The hands pull, nails yanking at him, and he drops his head into the dirt. Abandoning his spine, and skin, Bakura lets his eyelids slip closed and fills the air with ringing, wildfire laughter.

* * *

His head feels dull, bones ringing in his skin when a woman walks past him. The blue-netted dress is loose about her hips, but curled close to her torso, and her lips are red. Bakura sits up slowly, specks of dirt embedded in his knees and stinging as he moves. Gingerly, he twists the end of his belt into a thin strip and slides the rings and bracelets into place, clenches the kit in his fist. Watching the young woman, Bakura thinks she might be an associate of Nepthys, given the kite wings tattooed thinly across her breasts. She is no threat for him then; she belongs to a temple and is well-kept by them, judging by the healthy weight in her arms and body.

He ties the strip of fabric closed, and tucks it into his shendyt, feeling the gold bump against the divets of his hips, "Peace," He greets quietly, gathering himself to his feet. Bakura can feel his fingers spasm in the hem of his shendyt, but focuses on dipping his head to the Priestess. They are not so different, he thinks, and he wants to ask if giving her flesh away in the name of a God, surrounded with music and elegance makes her feel more or less like a skinned animal. But then she does not have golden rings bumping against her thigh.

She regards him cautiously, "In peace," She replies, stepping aside so that when he skitters past he won't touch her. He wants to dart past, sprint away, but his entire body is locked into tense coils. So, face burning, hair a sandy tangle, he pads past her, gold clinking with each step.

What they have done with their bodies seems very different suddenly, and it clutters dimly in his throat. There is no name for this God, the one that has taken root somewhere in his bones, burrowed into his spine, spilt his blood inside his body- except there is a hideous trickle running down his leg. The gold knocks up against it, catching as he rounds a corner.

He scrubs the soiled rings and bracelet against his clothes, sniffing at the smell of bread in the air. It's a heated smell, burning in his nose and the hunger sets in. But it is a small feeling, lost in the anger embalming his blood. He feels like he has been set alight, and the warmth of his hate lights up in his lungs. He laughs, wriggling the filthy rings onto his fingers. Lets the bracelet hang loose at his bony wrist. Holds his hands aloft, and turns them over and over in the sunlight.

He is one breath away from death - but that? That is not unusual. It is as common as the skin scraped off his knees, and semen sliding down his leg, and hunger in his belly, and blood crusting on his face. He is dying slowly, and still quickly, and there are things worse than being alive, so he tightens his fists. Feels the gold cut into his circulation. Laughs.

**Author's Note:**

> Survival sex refers to the practice of self-prostitution in order to provide for basic necessities. It is one of the leading causes of child prostitution both historically, and currently.
> 
> Many female sex workers in Ancient Egypt were associated with Goddesses, especially of fertility, and treated with the utmost respect as fertility was regarded highly. These workers would wear blue faience beaded fish-net dress, red-painted lips and tattooed themselves on the breast and thighs. Many would be attached to local temples, and receive living wages through the temple.
> 
> Male sex workers did not enjoy the same respect, or popularity as their female counterparts, and would often only be desirable when pre-pubescent. Male sex workers, as well as female sex workers not connected to a house (temple, family, society) were disenfranchised.
> 
> Prior to the advent of coins, Ancient Egyptian trade was largely for goods and services, with the exception of wages which were typically paid using beer and bread. However, there was a consistent pricing system that could be used as a currency.
> 
> Said currency revolved around weights of copper, and silver, in units known as deben. These units could be furthered divided into kit, and obol. Although deben or kit could be measured in silver, if it was left unspecified it was assumed to be copper.
> 
> 1 Silver Kit = 10 Copper Deben  
> 1 Deben = 12 Kit  
> 1 Kit = 12 Obol
> 
> The typical daily wages of an unskilled worker would be the equivalent of 1 obol per day, a sack of corn was one deben, and a young female slave could be valued at 4 deben and 1 silver kit.


End file.
